


Fire's Call

by MrsJohnReese



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27271102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsJohnReese/pseuds/MrsJohnReese
Summary: Jaeneth never imagined she would leave King's Landing and sail across the Narrow Sea to serve the rightful Queen. A bastard girl, born of a secret union prior to her father's joining the King's Guard, she never expected to leave the great city at all. But the death of King Robert, and the events it inspires will change her life forever, in ways she never could have foreseen.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. From Death to Life

They say death will eventually come for us all. That all the world will be covered in darkness, and any that remain at the end of days will be devoured by that darkness like a ravenous beast consumes its prey. All who resist will fall. There will be no escape, no matter how fear may make us fight against our fate until our last breath leaves our bodies. We will all succumb to the end—to the fire and misery that is our lot. And yet, with all of this before me, I find I am not afraid. Not truly, when the end of days suddenly seems all the more preferable to what I face now, standing before the body of the man who I once called 'Father'—

He is dead. The man I love is now an exile. I am well, and truly alone, now, and that is something I have never been. Never in all of my days.

To say anything other than that I am lost would be a lie.

Despite the pain and emptiness that I feel in the wake of his passing, however, I stand now before my father's body completely free of the tears that shook my entire frame when I first learned how he had left this world behind. A gentle breeze wafts in from the open window, the muted sounds of the city below presenting a counter-rhythm for the steady thumping of my own heart as it pounds erratically against my chest, ruffling the fabric of my gown, and causing a lock of hair to blow across my face. But in spite of the predictable way in which the tendril tickles at my nose, I remain motionless all the same, my gaze never once wavering from my father's body as though I truly do believe that staring at him with all that I have will bring him back to life.

Perhaps that fact alone serves as proof that I am nothing more than the little fool that my mother always said I was…

Fool or not, however, the sound of soft footfalls coming from behind where I stand finally serve as enough to force me from my silent contemplation, my eyes meeting the familiar expression of concern upon my newfound companion's features, while my cheeks invariably flush in response.

"You have not moved from this spot since this morning, Jaeneth. You must be hungry—"

"I can assure you I am not, Your Grace."

"And have you eaten since last afternoon?" Daenerys pressed, her eyes never leaving my face despite how her inquiry has me almost immediately diverting my own gaze back to my father's motionless features, "I suppose I should interpret your silence as denial."

"You may interpret it in any way you like, Your Grace."

"Jaeneth, please—you must allow me to help you!"

"I am fine, Your Grace."

"Then why this sudden formality? Do you blame me for his death?"

Though I know she certainly did not intend it, Daenerys' words send pain spiraling through my chest, the sudden tightness in my chest causing me to flinch in spite of my desire to prevent it. Her supposition is not true. It cannot be, despite how I know very well she would not have blamed me even if it was.

I could never blame her for my father's death, when I knew that giving his life and loyalty to the rightful Queen of Westeros was a far better fate than the one that awaited him had he simply accepted his dismissal from Joffrey Baratheon's Kingsguard as it came.

"I could never blame you, Your—"

"Jaeneth."

"Dany," I corrected, the renewed stinging at the backs of my eyes from tears I thought had long since gone away surprising me, and forcing me to avert my gaze from my father once again, in favor of looking at our Queen, instead, "I'm sorry."

"Whatever for?"

"For thinking of myself when we ought to be looking forward."

"In my experience, when we lose someone we love, we are entitled to such things," Daenerys advised, her tone gentle enough to provoke a weak smile to tug at my lips just as I register the sensation of her hand reaching for my own, "If you were not thinking of yourself, I would worry for you more than I already am."

"I would not wish you to worry for me at all."

"Well wish or not, I am, and I will."

"Would it not be more prudent to focus your time on other endeavors?" I inquired, glancing down at Daenerys' hand as it reaches for mine, the warmth of her skin surprisingly reassuring in spite of my former discomfort, "You—you are a Queen—"

"Is it not the duty of a good Queen to care for each of her subjects?"

"You have many more subjects with more pressing concerns."

"None of whom I trust enough to call friend."

"What of Missandei?"

"Is a friendship with one of you mutually exclusive of the same with the other?" Daenerys asked me, examining my features a bit more closely, with a frown marring her brow as she caught how my expression had fallen, once again, into one more indicative of someone who had gone entirely numb, "I was not aware of it."

"It is not."

"Then allow me to care for you, Jaeneth. Allow me to begin to make amends for what my decisions have taken from you."

Powerless to resist the compulsion in her voice, no matter how fiercely I may have wanted to, I find that I am only capable of managing a faint nod in response to Daenerys' request, the sensation of her hand squeezing my own for a moment before she is relinquishing her hold providing far more comfort than I truly believe I deserve. Despite my initial hesitation over her presence, I find myself suddenly panicked in the face of the sound of her footsteps retreating once more, my heart leaping into my throat as I turn suddenly, and nearly stumble from my place beside the dais in the process. The sound of my blunder proves to be enough to prompt Daenerys to stop, her body turning once again to face my own as I emit a strangled gasp that I appear to be unable to restrain—and then, before I can have a prayer of stopping it, the tears that have once again begun the act of burning at the backs of my eyes break free, and I find that I am enveloped in the arms of the Queen not long thereafter.

If only we could have known now that, despite feeling near to overwhelmed with our grief now, we only stood at the cusp of the coming change that would engulf us in mere weeks after this very moment…

All men must die. But we are not men.


	2. Begun by Blood

It is difficult to say for certain the precise age when I began to pester my mother for details on who my father was, my innate curiosity over the absence of something that so many others my age seemed to possess at odds with my reluctance to cause her any pain. Though she does not know it, I have heard her crying into her pillow every night, when she believes that I am already asleep. I have seen the wistful glances she adopts when she thinks I am too preoccupied with my dolls, or one of the other children who I play with while she prepares our meager supper for the day. But as it so often does with many a child, the need to have answers to whatever question plagues us for even the briefest of moments eventually won out over any hesitation I might have had, my eyes regarding my mother warily as we begin the task of settling down for the evening, and I finally find the courage to give voice to what I have wanted to know for so long.

"Mama—why do I not have a father?"

Even at such a tender age as I was then, I would have been blind to miss how my mother tensed at the recognition of my inquiry, her face paling as though I have just suggested she murder me in my sleep. Her features, already so unfairly worn by time and the circumstances of her life seem all but ready to crumble, as though she were an ancient scroll of parchment, and my words were the wind that would blow everything she had away with no more pity than a hunter killing its prey. But before I have any chance to take back the question in its entirety, I feel her hand grabbing for my own, a sigh escaping her and causing her shoulders to hunch before she looks me in the eye and begins to speak.

"You do have a father, my love. A man who is brave and strong. Some say he is the best fighter this realm has ever seen."

As though simply speaking of him could bring him back to her, my mother went further in her tale, her hand still clutched to mine, though her eyes told me her heart was far away. He was a man they would write songs of one day, she said—a man who was handsome as much as he was kind and gentle. And before I could fully recognize it, I found that I, too, had become swept away by her tale, my mind's eye imagining a thousand different faces that could belong to the man who had given me life.

Soon after that, I began my search, scanning the faces of every man I came across in Flea Bottom, and beyond in hopes of finding the man my mother spoke of. Naturally, I found myself disappointed almost immediately, each and every one who I met proving to be a meager substitute for what I envisioned my father to be. And although I knew she would advise me against it—that she would plead that I abandon my search as folly as soon as she heard of the lengths I was willing to go to find him—I soon found myself venturing beyond the narrow streets I had known all my life, making my way instead to parts of the Capital that had been as yet unexplored.

Many days were spent in this search, my feet gaining blisters and my skin darkening to a light brown from exposure to the sun and miles of walking from sunup to sundown without respite. My mother, I thought, must have suspected something of what I was doing, particularly when I would return home night after night with nothing to show for my outings aside from a weariness that I never stood a chance at keeping to myself. But despite my fears that she would put a stop to it all in the blink of an eye, she never said a word, instead choosing to withdraw into herself as each day went by and my honey-blonde hair bleached so much beneath the heat of the sun that it was nearly white.

I suppose I had almost given up on the day that I actually found my father, or, more appropriately, he found me, my search nothing short of half-hearted until it became clear I was simply roaming the streets, not observing them as carefully as I had, before. Though I had remained oblivious to it, endless days of searching had easily turned to a year, and then more, and what once had been a lofty quest now seemed to me as nothing more than the blind dreams of a simple little girl, only stubbornness prompting me to persist when more than once I had, in fact, considered giving up.

Perhaps that was what finally brought the white-cloaked man to me, when I was exhausted, and bitter though I did my best to deny it, my wayward thoughts so jumbled that I barely noticed when I rounded a corner and quite literally collided with the one person I had been seeking all along.

I did not recognize him for what he was at first, of course, though even I had to admit that beneath his warm blue gaze, my spirits lifted just a bit, my fears of retribution for not watching where I was going fading away rather quickly in light of how he held me at arm's length, with a faint smile upon his features as I stammered my hasty apologies. It soon became abundantly clear that unlike most men who were of the King's Guard, this was a man who knew how to laugh. Who looked upon the smallfolk of King's Landing with understanding and respect, not loathing. And in spite of myself, as he escorted me back to my home even in the face of my many protests to the contrary, I found myself rather quickly coming to admire this man who kept a wary eye to the streets and a gentle hand upon my back the entire time, wide blue eyes flicking up to glance at his face every time I thought he might not be looking.

It was not until we finally reached my meager home that I first suspected that my journey to find my father may well have been over, though not for the reason I had initially suspected. As distracted as I was with how kind this man seemed to be, despite the fact that he knew nothing of me or my kin, the sting of disappointment over having to give up on the very thing I had desired for as long as I could remember dimming just a bit in the wake of his attentions. Before I would have liked, we were standing outside of my door, the familiar screams and shouts of the children I had once played with subsiding as they stopped what they were doing to stare at the strange man standing beside me. But none of that could ever compare to the sight before me when my mother opened the door, prepared to chastise me for being out too late once again, only to have all thought of those words fall from her lips as she staggered back into our home with one hand clutched to her chest.

In next to no time at all, the man seemed to step inside after her, concern etched plainly upon his features as he held her face in his hands and murmured words too low for me to hear. And before I knew it, I was moving inside after them, watching in obvious shock as the man led my mother to a nearby chair, and guided her to sit with as much gentility as if she were made of glass that might break at the slightest provocation.

From that day on, the man who I learned called himself Barristan Selmy became a steady fixture in our lives, his visits always bringing a foreign kind of joy to my heart every bit as much as they brought some of the life back to my mother's smiles. If he took note of the meager quality of our meals, and the sparse furniture in our home, he said not a word of it, instead choosing to regale us with tales of his past, and listening to what little we could tell him of our own, in return. And before I fully came to terms with it on my own, I found myself succumbing to the desire to embrace him before every departure, the warmth of his arms winding around me to pull me close bringing a smile to my lips as nothing else ever could.

I suppose that warmth ought to have been enough to tell me that all the happiness I had found was never going to last…

The sickness came upon my mother suddenly, the fever burning through her skin so fiercely that I could scarcely stand to touch her for risk of causing her pain. A faint sheen of perspiration was a near constant presence upon her brow, just as her soft moans haunted me in my sleep. And no matter how much I may have wished otherwise, I was soon forced to turn my father away when he came to visit, for fear that he, too, would succumb to whatever illness plagued her body, and knowing that I did not possibly have the fortitude to tend to them both.

It was on the day following my reluctant closing of the door on my father's retreating form that the maester came to our door, his chain jingling as he moved around my frame as I pressed my back against the wall, and strode towards where my mother rested upon the bed in far the corner of our home. For what felt like hours, he hovered over her, feeling his fingertips against her skin, lifting her arms and legs and testing the strength within them, and persuading her to drink from what he assured her was a vial filled with what might amount to some relief for her pain. Despite his best hopes, however, the liquid did little to nothing for her, save for allow her a brief bit of sleep in between her cries of pain. And as he prepared to take his leave, after accepting the meager soup that I had prepared in a gesture of thanks for his efforts, I knew by only the look in his eyes that this was the day I had feared with all my heart.

"It pains me to say this, child, but I fear I was sent too late. I can do nothing for her, save for easing her passage into the arms of the gods," He says, sorrow etched upon his features, though I knew it was the result of years of practice delivering this sort of news, and not any genuine feeling for my sake, alone, "You would do well to say your goodbyes before the night is done. I do not believe your mother will see another sunrise."

Whether it was pride, or some hidden inner strength, I somehow managed to keep my tears and anger at bay until I had succeeded in showing the maester to the door, and closed it firmly in his wake, my eyes burning as though I had persisted in standing too close to the relentless flame of a candle despite the awareness that to do so would only cause me pain. As soon as the man was gone, however, the tears broke through my defenses with ease, burning their paths down my cheeks as I ran back to my mother's bed, and flung myself down at her side. I do not know how long I remained there, sobbing and clutching at her hand, until I had no more tears left, and my body had begun to shake with the effort of showing my grief for so very long. What I do know, and what I will remember until the day I die, is the hollow feeling that seemed to take root inside me when I woke with the rays of the sun shining in through the window on the adjacent wall, to find that the shallow rise and fall of my mother's chest was no more, and her hand had gone limp in my own…

…

In the months that followed my mother's passing, the days hold very little of import, such that I am easily able to allow them to blur into one another while I go about the tasks that are required of me to maintain the meager roof above my head for just a little bit longer. Some part of me is almost tempted to simply fall prey to my grief in its entirety, until the City Watch comes to cast me into the streets when I can no longer afford to pay the toad-faced man who owns our home in truth. But whatever despair gives that thought life still seems to fall away in the face of the stronger determination I feel to clutch whatever I can that reminds me of my mother as tightly as I can to my chest.

I suppose in the end, it is that stubborn desire that forces me to keep living when the gods alone know how much I yearn to simply follow my mother into the grave.

My father of course remained a steady presence at my side throughout it all, inasmuch as his own duties would allow him, though even he could not persuade me to do much more than the necessary to keep myself afloat at the first. For a time, I actually found myself believing he would give up on me, leaving me to fend for myself after so many days where I could hardly even stand to look him in the eye. But no matter how I often tried to prepare myself for the day where he would not come knocking at my door, it never came, and bit by bit I found that I was willing to allow him to bring me back to some semblance of my former self, if only to see the lines of worry that marred his brow abate just a little in response.

Day after day, almost in spite of my fears to the contrary, it became easier to simply exist, such that by the time my father told me he was to ride in the tourney to celebrate the king's name day, I felt something akin to eagerness while I endeavored to dress for the event on the morning of. I had nothing fine, of course, having always refused my father's offers of a portion of his own modest fortunes whenever they were made. Even so, as I allowed myself a glance in the thin bit of cracked mirror that my mother had always kept beside her bed, I found that I looked well enough, despite having grown thin enough for want of eating in the wake of my mother's death to allow my collarbones to press against my skin as though they wished to break free and depart entirely.

Though many will say that one can never know when the precise moment transpires in which they choose life over death, I do sincerely believe that such a moment, for me, was at that exact instant before I departed my home to watch my father partake in the tourney for the king.

Before I knew it, I was cheering each victory with the best of them, seated with the rest of the commoners on the benches far from those of noble stock. In truth, despite the implications of such a position, and how it had always proven offensive enough to prevent me from attending tourneys held in years past, this particular time I found no feeling save one of pride while watching my father at his work. He moved with an effortless sort of grace and ease regardless of how I was all but certain that the weight of his armor and helm must have made that a difficult reality to obtain. And although I never would have envisioned myself as capable of experiencing a moment where I was not dwelling upon the absence of my mother, I found that I was doing exactly that as I watched my father accept the king's pronouncement of his victory, the nearly foreign sensation of a smile spreading across my lips distracting me enough that I do not notice the appearance of the man beside me until his voice is speaking in my ear.

"Your enthusiasm is charming, my lady."

"Forgive me, sir, but you are mistaken," I begin, turning to face the man in question, and finding myself more than a little unsettled by how his eyes never once waver from their inspection of my features, "I am no lady, or I would be seated elsewhere."

"You behave as one," The man persists, reaching for my hand, and startling me with the way in which he grabs it with ease, before bringing my fingers to his lips to favor them with a kiss, "Is our esteemed victor a secret lover, perhaps?"

The flush rises instantaneously to my cheeks in the wake of this man's assumption, prompting me to yank my hand away before what propriety my mother taught me can stop it. In the wake of such a gesture, he emits a soft laugh, a smile drawing the corners of his mouth upward while he shakes his head as though my reaction was the epitome of amusement for the day. But what surprises me far more than his easy mirth is what he says next, his voice dropping an octave as he leans towards me almost conspiratorially, and causes me to shiver unwittingly in response.

"No, sweet lady, I daresay he is not. Our Ser Barristan holds his honor in too much esteem to break his vows, even for one as lovely as yourself."

"Then your previous assertion is incorrect," I remark, somewhat surprised that I have managed to keep my tone even, despite the way in which this man has unnerved me by his presence alone, "Forgive me, but I truly must be going—"

"And before I have learned of your true nature? You are cruel, my lady."

"I am not a lady, sir, as I have told you."

"That is not what my eyes tell me."

"And what do your eyes tell you?"

"They tell me that you are new to this tourney, and that you are pleased over Ser Barristan's victory. And they tell me that you would much rather be rid of me so that you can tell him so yourself," The man informs, clearly aware of how his supposition prompts me to flinch, though I am not so quick to attempt remedying anything of what he has just said, "Is any of what I say untrue, my lady?"

"I—"

"Your hesitation becomes you. Almost as much as the charming little flush upon your cheeks."

Unable to do anything other than stare at the man as he once again emits a faint laugh over my apparent uncertainty, I find that I am attempting a faint step backwards, only to discover that I am bumping against a rather solid frame, the gentle pressure of a hand at my back steadying me as I realize the individual who has just approached is none other than my father himself.

"Ah, and here is our champion, arrived to rescue the damsel in distress," The strange man persists, his smile ever-ready as he glances between my father and I, and seems completely unaware of the way in which neither one of us is grinning along with him, "Congratulations are in order, Ser Barristan."

"Lord Baelish," My father replies, his tone stern despite the fact that the warmth of his hand upon my back is gentle enough to ease my nerves, "I had not thought to find you here."

"And where had you thought to find me, my good knight?"

"With others of your station. Or have you abandoned your fondness for the finer things in life?"

"Oh not at all, Ser Barristan. But you do this lady a great injustice if you infer she is not one of those things, as well," The man—Baelish—states, once again allowing his gaze to roam across my features, and prompting me to withdraw just a bit closer to my father's sturdy frame as a result before I dare to respond in kind.

"I am with the commoners in the stands, my lord. I am hardly a fine thing, if I can even be called a thing at all."

"Quite the wordsmith, this one. I see why she enchants you, Barristan."

"If you are quite through tormenting the poor girl, Lord Baelish, then the lady and I will depart," My father begins, managing a curt nod for the lord's benefit before beginning to steer me towards the stairs that will lead us to the grounds, and likely a return journey home. But of course before we are allowed to do just that, we find ourselves halted once more by the sound of the man's voice calling out from behind us, his amusement so apparent this time that I do not even have to turn to face him to see his smile.

"You would do well to guard your little friend, Ser Barristan. Such strange things can happen to women when men like us try to keep them a secret."

Though my father did not reply, I would have been blind had I missed the slight darkening in his features, and the manner in which he had taken my arm in hopes of leading me away from Lord Baelish as quickly as he could without appearing rude.

I did not know it then, but I had just received my first lesson in the duplicity and intrigue that made up my father's life, and would soon become a part of my own dealings in King's Landing…

…


	3. Playing With Fire

"Who was that man?" I ask, turning to risk a glance at my father's face, and finding myself startled at the ferocity that glints in his eyes for all the world to see. In truth I am hardly accustomed to such a thing, having had little opportunity to see my father as Lord Commander, instead of just the kindly man who took an interest in my own well-being against all odds. And the disparity between that man, and the one standing beside me now is more than just a little disconcerting, though I do my very best to avoid allowing that reality to make itself known upon my features as I ready myself for my father's ensuing reply.

"Lord Petyr Baelish. Master of Coin on the king's Small Council."

"And you do not approve of him?"

"He is not to be trusted," My father replies, his hand once again returning to the small of my back as he guides me around a sharp curve on the cobbled street we walk upon on the way back to my home, "That he seems to have taken an interest in you so quickly unsettles me."

"It unsettles me as well. But I likely will never see him again, as I am not a regular at court."

"I would not be so sure, my dear. That man has a way of bringing those that intrigue him into his company whether they will it or not."

"Is he truly that dangerous?" I inquire, my brow furrowing as I watch my father nod, the solemnity of his expression causing a shiver of dread to race down my spine before I can stand a chance of stopping it, "He does not strike me as a skilled fighter. Or even a man who would—who would treat a woman unfavorably."

"Those things are not what concern me," My father assures, gently tugging me to the side of the narrowed street we traverse, so that a man can pass us by with a mule dragging his cart of wares behind him, "Rather, his means of procuring alliances, and what he does to people who displease him."

"Do you believe I would displease him?"

"I believe he would choose to use you against me, if I ever did."

"But why would you ever displease him? You are Lord Commander of the King's Guard—"

"To underestimate a man such as Petyr Baelish is the first of a set of mistakes that have already led to many a man's downfall, child. Those men have been both old and young, great and small."

"And you fear he will try to hold me as leverage to get you to do his bidding," I surmise, my own expression turning serious as I come to a stop, thus forcing my father to do the same beside me, "I will not let him."

"I fear you will have little choice in the matter, should things come to that, Jaeneth. He knows who you are now."

"He does not know I am your daughter."

"And he will never know. If he did, he would become more dangerous to you than he already is," My father declares, reaching to give my hand a gentle tug so that we may keep moving down the cobbled street, and avoid earning any curious glances on account of remaining in one place for too long, "I am afraid we must stop seeing one another so frequently, child. At least for now."

"I—but why? Surely there is a way to keep our meetings secret."

"Not here. Not in King's Landing, with eyes and ears around every corner just waiting to run back to who pays them with whatever information they find."

"Whose eyes and ears?" I persist, suddenly panicked at the prospect of losing my father's companionship, especially now, when my mother is gone as well, "Whose?"

"Baelish—Varys—and any number of others, Jaeneth. I will not have you falling into their hands."

"But—"

"I will not, child," My father interrupts, his voice taking on a startlingly firm tone as he stops suddenly in front of me, and cups my face with both his hands, "You must trust me in this. Please."

Unable to resist his plea, I settle for a simple nod, only the stinging of my eyes belying the fact that our soon to be enforced separation is breaking my heart. I needed my father—more than that, I had come to love him dearly in the days since our very first meeting, what felt like ages ago. And here he was, proposing we take a step back from one another, despite knowing that doing so would leave me quite alone.

Whether it was for my own safety or no, I could not find it within myself to agree with his decision, regardless of the fact that I know I am powerless to do anything but go along with it, at least for now. I know better than to try and find him at court, myself, no matter how painful even the shortest of separations might be. And so, I find that I am trying to resign myself as best I can to what it is he has suggested, my frown never quite disappearing from my face as I wet my lips with my tongue, and square my shoulders before I speak.

"I trust you," I begin, knowing better than to call him father out here in the open, where just anyone could hear, though I do what I can to convey that mere word in my gaze as I look up at him with all the sincerity I can summon to my disposal.

"I trust you, no matter what."

Whether I could swear to never attempt to rectify our current situation or not, I could at least give my father this one small concession, if only to see the furrows at his brow relax bit by bit as he drew me into what was to be our last embrace for far longer than either of us might have liked.

…

The initial days after my father's decision to keep our mutual distance from one another passed without much consequence, my life going on much as it had prior to knowing him, save for the absence of my mother. In truth, it was almost soothing to have some semblance of a routine to go back to, in spite of my father's lack of presence, and although it pained me still to be so far removed from him, I did still find myself capable of stealing the occasional glance or two in passing, either way.

It did me more than a little good to get a glimpse of him, even from afar, and despite the fact that he never once saw me though I was but a few feet away. More often than not, I managed to catch such sightings while he was otherwise occupied in his duties as Lord Commander, and with each time I had managed to go undetected, my confidence in such things only grew.

I suppose it was that confidence, in the end, that was the death of an otherwise seemingly perfect plan.

I had followed a great crowd of commoners towards the main thoroughfare to watch the king depart on his rumored journey to Winterfell, with the queen, his children, and sundry other guards and retainers in tow. If the stories were to be believed, as well as the near to endless ringing of mourning bells throughout the city, the Hand of the King had died, and King Robert was on the way to find himself a new one. And although I truly had no way of knowing exactly what just such an event could set in motion, the sight of my father in his armor riding at the right hand of the king told me in mere moments that he meant to depart soon, as well.

Almost as soon as the realization came to mind, I felt my heart clenching within my chest, my breath catching in my throat as I tried and failed to stifle the noise that tore itself from my throat to give evidence to my shock. I am all but certain he cannot have possibly heard it, not with the commotion coming from the surrounding crowd. But whether by some innate instinct or a miracle of the gods, my father's head is turning towards me, his expression shifting just a bit as he truly takes in my appearance, and his lips curve just a bit into a partial frown.

For whatever reason, even in the face of how I had sworn to myself time and time again that I would do nothing to call attention to myself on occasions such as this, I find that I am powerless to resist the urge to push my way just a bit closer to the first row of bystanders, my eyes clinging to my father's frame as though this is the last time I will ever see him again.

In contrast to the many other times I had done this, this particular time, all hope of keeping myself to the shadows—inconspicuous—fall rapidly to the wayside in lieu of the desperation I am feeling to somehow cause my father to stop his journey, and stay here with me, instead. It is childish, of course. So absolutely childish that I can already feel my cheeks burning with shame, though that is not enough to stop me from pushing forward, regardless. Our eyes meet for a moment—I can feel it happen, in spite of the still sizeable distance between us, and him on top of a horse, to boot. But before I can say or do anything to force his attention to linger upon me for more than just that brief moment, no matter how foolish such an act may be, I find that my heart is falling within my chest as I watch my father spur his horse onward until he disappears at the side of the king through the city gates.

Of course, I should not have expected him to stay, or grant me anything other than the glance he had already spared me, but that did not seem to be entirely enough to quell the stirrings of pain within my chest, one hand absently moving to dash at an errant tear that had already escaped to make its way down my cheek, while I turn on a heel to disappear back into the crowd. There seems to be nothing more that I want in this moment, save for the privacy of my own home, meager as it is, where my disappointed tears can fall in peace.

Naturally, the second the desire pops into my mind, I find that I am forced to cast it aside, the startling presence of a hulking stranger in the middle of my path giving me reason to tilt my head back so that I can look this newcomer in the eye.

"You'll be needin' to be comin' wit' me, little lady."

"On whose orders?" I demand, silently cursing the way in which my voice wavers a bit, though I am at least marginally capable of maintaining my stance before him, rather than flinching away, like instinct tells me I ought.

"Don't make no difference. I does as I'm told. You should too."

"I don't think I will. If you will excuse me—" I begin, attempting to step around the man, only to have my heart begin to slam erratically against my ribs as I register the sensation of calloused fingertips curling around the bare flesh of my arm, "Let me go!"

"Can't, milady. I has orders to take you to a man as wants to see you very much. Wouldn't do to anger him," The man replies, the surprisingly neutral tone of his voice only provoking my suspicion, though I note with some dismay that I am not strong enough, nor bold enough to attempt to break myself free of his grasp, and thus draw more attention to myself than I already have. I know enough of the part of town we inhabit to realize that I cannot depend upon a single one of these people to come to my aid. And so despite how I am practically shivering with apprehension over exactly what all of this might mean, I force myself to look the man in the eye once more, my shoulders squaring a bit as I exhale in a rush before I speak.

"If I swear to come with you, without a fuss, will you allow me to do so without your grip on my arm?"

He seemed to consider the prospect for a moment, his eyes narrowed as they looked upon me as though attempting to see through to some lie I have concocted to get my way. In response, I simply do what I can to remain still, my expression as neutral as it can be in the face of my still mounting nerves. But before I can begin to squirm beneath the weight of my unwanted companions gaze, or give too much consideration to the fact that this is the precise sort of situation my father had likely been trying to warn me about, I find that I am distracted by the sight of the man before me managing a jerky nod, his hand dropping from my arm while the other lifts in a gesture towards the direction he appears to want me to go.

"This way, little lady. An' no funny business, you hear?"

Only capable of giving him a nod, myself, I fall into step beside him as he leads me through the nearest alleyway and onto an adjacent street, my eyes drinking in every sight around me in as much time as I am given before we are moving on to the next street, curve, or alley in rapid succession. A small part of me dreads the possible end of whatever sort of excursion this is, knowing that I have absolutely no reason to trust this man, or his intentions. But a still greater part of me is curious, despite the stupidity that is so inherent in such a feeling, and so I settle for simply following along after my companion as quickly as I can, my gaze still flitting around for any semblance of a quick exit route should it become necessary, in the end.

I know I do not stand much of a chance, should it come to that, but it still somehow does me some small bit of good knowing the preparation is in place, regardless…

…

At the end of my rather impromptu journey, I find myself capable of nothing more than staring, open-mouthed, at the building standing before me, my eyes fixed upon the red glass globe hanging above the door as though if I stare long enough, it will simply disappear. In truth, I ought to have recognized this place for what it was as soon as my companion and I entered the street, the men coming and going in various states of disarray providing a far greater clue that I might not have missed, had I not been so lost in my own thoughts over exactly what was going on. But now, I was here, standing before a brothel of all places, only aware of my companion's presence once again as I felt his hand come to rest upon my arm for the second time, so that he could tug me inside as I was quite clearly incapable of moving forward, myself.

"I'm not—there's been a mistake," I finally protest, biting my lip as I find myself tugged into the brothel, and consequently forced to squint my eyes not that long thereafter to enable myself to have a hope of seeing anything in the dim and ruddy light, "I don't belong here."

"I'm not bringin' you here as a worker, little lady. Follow me."

Frowning, and yet still doing as I am told, at least for the moment, I take careful steps behind the man who brought me here, taking great care to keep my eyes averted from the goings on around me. My cheeks are still flaming their embarrassment, and I am fervently fighting the instinct to bolt for the door with every step I take, knowing full well that if I do run, it will likely go far worse for me than if I simply remain cooperative. And in spite of how I can practically picture my father's face if he could but see me now, I force my thoughts away from such a daunting prospect, choosing instead to remain as aware of my surroundings as I can.

Something tells me my survival will count on nothing less.

Steeled by the notion, I continue moving forward until I am led to a rather more secluded hallway, and the doorway that rests at its end within moments. From what little I can see, the hall is filled with private rooms, the quality of the flooring alone giving me every reason to believe this may be where the more valued clients of the establishment spend their time. But, just as soon as the thought comes to mind, I am forced to put it aside, the slight knock that my companion gives to the door at the end of the hall effectively startling me back to the present just in time to hear a voice call out from inside the room itself.

"Enter."

Doing as we are instructed, my companion and I enter the room, my eyes widening once more as I take in the lavish furnishings and expensive looking embroideries hung all about the walls. Candles set in sconces evenly spaced about the room give off a gentle light, illuminating the man sat at the desk at the far end of the room with quill in hand. For a moment, I almost do not recognize him, the flickering of the candles, and my own lingering surprise at having been brought here to begin with causing my focus upon the man's face to waver and shift so that a positive identification is very nearly impossible. All of that doubt falls rather readily to the side as soon as the man abandons his quill and moves to stand, however, my heart seeming to stutter to a stop within my chest as I watch him approach, while addressing my companion in the same fluid motion.

"You may leave us now, Allard. I believe the Lady Jaeneth and I are more than capable of entertaining ourselves for the moment without your interference."

I did not have to truly see the man's smile—a smile that did not ever reach his eyes—to know that I had just stepped out of the frying pan, and into the fire.


End file.
